


a monster we've created

by terabient



Category: Soul Calibur
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-26
Updated: 2012-04-26
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:31:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terabient/pseuds/terabient
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patroklos' first encounter with the malfested does not go well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a monster we've created

The boy lying in front of Patroklos is young, and terrified. His eyes are wide and bright with tears, and though his mouth shapes words no sound escapes him. Fear, Patroklos realizes, has robbed the child of all ability to speak. 

The sword Patroklos holds over the boy's neck wavers. Surely this child cannot be one of the damned, the malfested? He cannot believe a true monster would quail so violently before the sight of a bared blade, or plead for a soul it could not possess. 

Graf Dumas' orders echo in Patroklos' mind. _The town is lost, populated by nothing more than beasts hiding in human flesh. It is the sacred duty of our army to eradicate them._ Patroklos swallows hard. He does not doubt the Graf's words, but perhaps there were innocents hiding within this nest of vipers. Perhaps this boy had been stolen away from his parents; ( _just like Pyrrha-_ ) perhaps he was nothing more than a victim that could now walk free.

Patroklos sheathes his sword, and reaches out to the child. “Don't be afraid. I can help you-”

“Patroklos Alexander!” The voice of the Graf rises above the clash of steel and the roar of the flames engulfing the town. “Why do you stay your hand?”

“I-” Patroklos whirls around, and comes face to face with the Graf's dispassionate gaze. In the fire-lit night, Dumas' eyes take on a strange red cast, smoldering as bright as the embers of the razed homes surrounding them. To his shame, Patroklos finds himself trembling in his lord's presence. “I...I don't think this child is a malfested, my lord.”

Dumas glances at the cowering boy. “And what makes you believe such a thing?”

The question surprises Patroklos. The child's innocence had seemed so obvious, and yet hadn't the Graf warned his men, time and time again, that the malfested wore the flesh of their human victims as easily as a man wears a mask? Under the Graf's unwavering, merciless gaze, Patroklos' certainty begins to shrivel.

“How can a child be a servant of evil? His fear is so great that he can hardly breathe...”

“Of course it is afraid,” says Dumas. “The forces of good have confronted it at last.” Dumas turns his gaze to Patroklos' sword. “I understand that the weapon you wield is in honor of another. If _she_ were to come to you, sword in hand and striking down those with souls poisoned by darkness, would you cower and whimper at her feet, like this creature?” He motions to the boy contemptuously. “Or would you reach out and welcome her with open arms? Such bestial fear is proof enough of guilt.”

Patroklos turns back to the boy, who stares up at him in mute terror. The sympathy he had felt earlier drains away, leaving nothing but a hollow sense of anger in its wake. To think that he had almost been fooled by such an obvious disguise! Patroklos only hopes that Dumas will not lose faith in him because of his mistake. “I understand, my lord.”

Dumas nods. “You know what must be done.” The Graf's voice, cool and hard as steel, cuts away the lingering doubt in Patroklos' heart. He raises his sword, the blade shining red in the firelight.

“May the gods have mercy on your benighted soul,” Patroklos says reverently, and plunges the sword into the boy's heart.

The wail that erupts from the child's mouth rises above the cacophony of the battle, a single, high note of unbearable pain. For the first time since he had taken up arms in his mother's name, Patroklos wishes that he could abandon the field; wishes to put away sword and shield so that he might never again face this horror. The sight of the child's body writhing on the blade that impales it leaves Patroklos ill, and when he pulls the sword from the lifeless corpse the wet, sloppy sound of steel escaping flesh almost makes him vomit. Patroklos swallows his revulsion, cursing his cowardice.

“Excellent work.” Dumas lays a cold, steel-clad hand upon Patroklos' shaking shoulders. The chill touch does nothing to ease the ache growing in Patroklos' heart. He ought to be honored that the Graf himself has taken notice of him, but it takes all of Patroklos' strength to resist the desire to push Dumas away and escape the man's suffocating presence.

“Thank you, my lord,” Patroklos whispers. He cannot bring himself to say more.

Dumas hardly seems to acknowledge the reply. He begins to walk away, and Patroklos tries not to sigh in relief at his departure.

The Graf pauses, as if remembering something.

“Your mother would not have hesitated, Patroklos Alexander. He who would fight the darkness must not be afraid to steep his hands in blood.”

Dumas walks into the fire-tinged darkness, not bothering to wait for a response.

Patroklos stares down at his shield, his vision blurred by sudden tears. 

“Mother, have I shamed you?”


End file.
